Safe place
by Arianka
Summary: When his mission is complete, all Sherlock wants to do is to come home. NOT a reunion fick. Warning - it's a sad story.


**A/N:  
** Just a short scene that came to my mind yesterday and didn't want to leave until I wrote it down. Warning - it's sad.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any characters and I don't make any profit from writing**  
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**Safe place**

His mission was over. The long months of chases, researches and playing cat and mouse were finished. The last enemy, the danger that prevented him from coming back, had been eliminated. Sebastian Moran was now only a growing cold corpse and a sticky stain of his brain. Nothing that could stop him now.

He could go back home.

Only he couldn't take pleasure of this. Every hastened heart beat was his enemy, each step was more and more unstable and the hole between his ribs was burning. In a panic, growing despite his will, Sherlock draggled stubbornly to the nearest main road, blessing the fact that it was always possible to get a cab in the center of London. He made it to the nearest and slumped in the backseat. He needed safe place... Safe... Fighting with the overwhelming fog, he murmured the only address that came to his mind.

"221B Baker Street."

The cab went without difficulties through the empty streets. The taxi driver glanced at him and asked for money. When he got some, he drove to the address he was given without a word. Sherlock knew he was mistaken for a drunk person, but it didn't matter.

It was easy to get in, worse to get out. Closing eyes and giving up to the car's rocking was dangerous enough. It was so easy, so pleasant... just closing his eyes and not thinking, hiding the pain behind memories. He needed all his strength to resist this desire.

"Will you find your doors?" asked the taxi driver ironically, when he stopped by the familiar looking building. At the sight of the signboard and the green doors Sherlock allowed himself to moan, before he nodded and opened the door like in a dream. Leaning on them, he managed to lift himself and stood on his own. As soon as he shut the door behind him, the cub drove away. Now he had to walk these few meters...

Too far away. He fell over a few steps from the doorstep and no power of will could make his body get up. He saw the doorbell, all he had to do to get help was to stand up and press the button... But it was above his possibilities right now, and Baker Street was empty at this part of the night. After few fruitless attempts Sherlock could no longer fight the raising panic invading his rational mind. If only he had his phone...

"John..."

XXX

A doorbell, ringing mercilessly at dawn wasn't a common situation. It took awhile before John woke up enough to realize that the noise that had woken him came from his doorbell. It wasn't even five in the morning, the sun was just rising. At first doctor Watson wanted to ignore the intruder who woke him at such stupid hour, but the vibrating noise just didn't allow that. If Mrs. Hudson had been at home, she would have answered by now, but she was away and John was the only occupant, so he stood up and went to open the doors.

A frightened, quite not sober young man stood at the doorstep. He was white as sheet and kept pressing the bell with his shaking hand, until John moved it away.

"What's the matter?" he asked sharply.

"He.. he s-seem-ms t-to be dead," uttered the boy. "It says 'doctor' here, so..."

But John wasn't listening. He pushed the boy aside and indeed saw a body curled on the sidewalk. The man had a ling coat, now wet from the morning fog. Long, blond hair covered his face, but John wasn't interested in it. With smooth movements, John reached to his neck, but the temperature of the body told him that there was no point in looking for the pulse. Dead, right on his doorstep... Before he stood up to get his phone, John decided to turn the man and look at his face.

It would be better if he hadn't done it. Too long he had dreamt about the dead body on the sidewalk. Too many times he had begged, silently and aloud, for this one small miracle. Too many times he had imagined seeing him again.

And now he did see. Like he wanted, he saw slim, triangle Sherlock's face, without his hair wet from blood and the wound on his forehead. The color of his hair wasn't correct, but John would recognize these cheekbones everywhere. Sherlock was pale as always. In contrary to that nightmarish day by the hospital, he looked calm, almost innocent. John had prayed for this moment so many times that he wanted now to yell in his helpless fury and beg that this would never happen. Everything seemed right, except one thing.

In his dreams Sherlock always returned alive.


End file.
